Archive for November, 2008

Having bought the perfect and ultimate black leather dress, I found I was too lame to wear it with anything but more black. I think it looks good with black tights and black shoes, but I want to think of this dress as versatile. Wouldn’t it look great with something else? Like what?

Here it is without me in it. Isn’t it awesome?! It zips up the back and has zippers at the cuff, too.

I wore it to a dinner party and towered over all the women, who may have been midgets. I drank some wine and got involved in a lively theological discussion that led one guest to exclaim “Talmud Schmalmud,” which is my feeling as well.

So, help a sister out on the accessory question. What is your vision for this dress? I have a million pairs of boots, some clunky black high-heels, clunky red high-heels, pointy lace up flats, and that’s about it. I’m willing to buy the right shoes or leg-wear if I only knew what they were.

(If anyone needs to say I look like a drag queen, hurry up and get it over with. Plus, “I look fat but I’m really not.”)

Britain’s Literary Review has announced the winner of its annual Bad Sex in Literature award. Rachel Johnson won for a passage in her satirical novel “Shire Hell,” and John Updike won a Lifetime Achievement award for his many contributions over the years.

I think this is a great idea, although I’m not sure how it works. Do the judges hunt for bad sex passages all year long or do people send in nominations, or what?

Although Ms. Johnson was commended for using the “worst metaphors” in a group of “equally awful entries,” a couple of the other candidates are impressive enough to deserve attention.

Here is a bit from “To Love, Honor and Betray” by Kathy Lette.

His towel fell away. Sebastian’s erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town.

Hahaha! Great, isn’t it? Here’s a passage from “Triptych of a Young Wolf” by Ann Allestree:

‘You are so moist down there.’ He stroked and probed her with two fingers as she felt her blood waken. He raised himself to his knees and bent to roll his tongue around her weeping orifice. He was bringing her to a pitch of ecstasy when she heard Madame Veuve, on the landing, put down the supper tray. Whiffs of onion soup strayed over them as he engulfed her.

It really is an art.

Let’s have a contest for the Godammit Bad Sex in Blog Comments Award. I haven’t thought out the prize yet, but it will be GOOD. I promise.

No filthy language, please. Anyone can write porn; this is about creative writing and the lofty heights that language can achieve.

If you read some of the excerpts from this year’s selections, you are bound to feel inspired. Here’s my extemporaneous attempt:

He unzipped his skin-tight Levis and extracted all twelve inches of his throbbing member, which ached for the heavenly cavern she had hidden between her creamy waxed thighs. “Ow!” she screamed wildly, thrashing like a horse giving birth to twin foals.

Okay, so something like that, only a thousand times better. Ready, get set, go!

If you had a crazy mother, you will spend your whole life trying to transcend it. If you are a crazy mother, no degree of remorse will ease your heavy heart.

My mom was crazy. Even into her forties, my sister was ashamed to let anyone find out. Whenever I meet someone with a crazy mom, I feel an instant kinship, even if their childhood experience was nothing like mine. The burden of a crazy mom sets you apart. You missed out on something that you can barely imagine. But you struggle to forgive her.

I know people who were locked in closets, hit, threatened, screamed at, abandoned, and I know a woman whose mom killed herself on Mother’s Day, knowing her three daughters would find her with a plastic bag over her head.

If your mom was crazy, none of this will shock you. I’m more shocked when an adult friend tells me about a nice day she just had, shopping with her mom. It seems almost otherworldly. How do you get a normal mom, a mom who isn’t either enraged or crying?!?

While PAP Smear takes a break, I’m embarking on a Crazy Mothers Club. We might have a logo, but probably not. Maybe just a secret handshake.

Was (or is) your mom crazy? Here is a place you can talk about it. Rant, complain, whine, and compare notes. Are you a crazy mom? You can confess, seek counsel, or just bond with other crazy moms. No one gets to be mean to anybody else, i.e., bad vibes will not be tolerated.

Since I fit both categories, I get to be CEO. Annemarie will do the PR and heavy lifting. All other positions are open.

For the last few days, I’ve had the feeling that there’s nothing interesting on the Internet. Anywhere. For me, as an addict, this is pretty scary. How much fashion, YouTube, politics or gossip can anyone stand? How many weird medical disorders, conjoined twins, opinions, rants or Wikipedia entries can anyone absorb? It’s all bullshit.

On that note, here is a quiz to test your knowledge of pop culture. I’m going to make it up as I go along. Remember that the more questions you can answer correctly, the more you should probably just kill yourself.

No cheating!

1. Madonna may be upset, but ——- “is her rock.”

2. Which young celebrity/drug addict is NOT a lesbian.

3. Who is her lesbian girlfriend’s famous brother?

4. How long did Angie breastfeed the twins?

5. What sickening actor likes to be pictured without his shirt on?

6. Who is Jessica Simpson dating?

7. What is Beyonce’s new alter ego called?

8. Name Gwen Stefani’s two sons.

8. Name her husband’s teenage daughter.

9. Tom Cruise is —.

10. What is a ‘tweaker?’

11. Donatella’s daughter suffers from ——–.

12. Leonardo is dating ___ ______ because he likes ——.

How did you make out? 12 out of 12=tragic. 8-11=sad. 6-10=average student of pop culture. 1-5=great job, keep it up! 0=cheater!

* I’m not giving answers, because you know if you know them. If you don’t know an answer, give yourself a nice pat on the back, you’re better off.

On one of the blogs I like to read for sheer masochistic mental anguish, the mostly male commenters are arguing about the nature of intelligence. They can’t agree what an “intellectual” is, but they know they don’t like it. They’re also going on about Blacks being “cunning” rather than intelligent.

I can’t imagine women having this sort of argument. It’s too silly on the one hand, and too racist on the other. Who gives a shit? Women know what intelligence is and they don’t pretend not to. No wonder men don’t want to talk to us; we can’t take this kind of pompous pissing contest seriously.

Elsewhere, the ever-delightful Mr. Duff, who likes to annoy my commenters, has called them “retards” and “nobodies” in a rant (about intellectuals) on his own blog. Retards, good. We’re Retards. But “nobodies?” What kind of an adult man wants to obsess over the definition of Intellectual and then call a group of people Nobodies?

Men! They are always so confused about what to take seriously. And yet, they buy Extenze. Have we all seen the commercials where a dazed looking woman promises that Extenze will make “that certain part of a man” bigger? The first time I saw it, I yelled “What, his ego?” Which I thought was a really good joke, even though my husband failed to crack a smile.

Now there’s a new Extenze commercial where a married couple sits together looking smug and self-congratulatory. The man says something like he thought is would be “fun” to be “bigger.” The woman agrees suggestively that it WAS “fun.”

Hahaha! What’s wrong with men, I mean people?? A bigger dick is not the answer. I almost hate to break the news, know what I mean? But while looking for Extenze, I just came upon a website called Penis Enlargement Planet. And it’s about penis enlargement. What a waste of a great domain name!

The sillyness of men can be mind-boggling or endearing, depending on the size of their penis. JUST KIDDING! It can also be really frustrating. Take this simple quiz:

Person A asks Person B why they are mad. Person B denies being mad. Person A asks again. Person B states angrily that they weren’t mad, but now they are.

Wanda Sykes, one of my favorite comedians, came out yesterday as a result of Prop. 8. I salute her and can only imagine the courage it took as a Black entertainer to identify herself as gay. I’ve been counting on Queen Latifah, but I guess she feels she has too much to lose, and that’s the problem.

It’s easy for me as a heterosexual white woman to feel frustrated with Queen Latifah, Anderson Cooper, and John Travolta for refusing to come out of the closet. The gay community could use their help in teaching the ignorant that gay is normal and okay.

To help inspire anyone who’s afraid to come out, let me say this:

I have fibromyalgia!

In January of this year, I wrote about fibromyalgia here and made fun of it as a fake disorder. I still get comments about it, both mocking and defensive. It’s still a divisive subject, and it’s easy to see why.

When I got the fibromyalgia diagnosis a few months ago, I was furious. I told the rhumatologist, “But I don’t want that! I don’t even believe in it!” She was sympathetic. I called my friends, who all laughed hysterically, just as I’d expected. I laughed too. It fucking serves me right for making fun of it. The doctor urged me to start walking instead of sitting on my ass all day. I forced my self to walk my dog, and ended up in the hospital. [see Pain Journals] There, I was in too much pain to think about fibromyalgia. Later, I was reminded of it when I woke up each morning with sore muscles and feeling like I’d been the loser in a titanic boxing match.

I still think it’s funny, though! I wrote a song about fibromyalgia while I was in the hospital, delirious on morphine. If I knew how to add audio to this, I’d sing it right now, that’s how good it is. I even want the pink Fibromyalgia Awareness Bracelet (hint: think Christmas!)

My poor husband begs me every day to “do something” for my fibromyalgia. He even brought home two awful books last night about how to “manage” it. The books make me more disgusted than ever with Fibro, as we call it in the Fibro business. The “illness” is traced to everything you can think of: childhood abuse, overly-sensitive nervous system, fucked up neuro-transmitters, chronic stress. The symptoms, again, include insomnia, restless sleep, depression, fatigue, fucked up digestive system, fuzzy memory, head ache, bla bla bla.

Basically, the Fibro portrait is that of a screwed-up woman with emotional problems. Who wants to identify with that?? It’s stupid and embarrassing, like hemmmoroids or psoriasis only worse because it’s not even supposed to exist.

So, here is my coming out party. Yay for me! I am bravely admitting that every one of my muscles is sore and I wake up going Ow! Ow! like an old man with lumbago. I’m not planning to do anything about it unless it starts impinging on my lifestyle of doing nothing.

Now, does anyone want to come out if you’ve been too embarrassed or afraid to? Or would you like to make fun of my Fibro? Let the games begin.

We can’t be through with Mrs. Palin until she gives us a little breathing room. I’m hopin’ that god will show her one of those doors she’s waitin’ for. She’ll snowplow her way through and then, oops, fall off a cliff. Meanwhile, Dick Cavett is still upset by her and so is Andrew Sullivan. Here, above, is a young Mrs. P at a moose-butchering party. Even then, she knew how to use her looks to distract everyone from the vacant cranial cavity.

I’ve recently found another gutsy gal to take an interest in. Grace Mugabe, the ‘Fist Lady’ of Zimbabwe, is known as an Imelda Marcos wannabe who shops till she drops in Paris and Rome while her country starves. She even had a mansion built in her honor and called it Graceland, but she got tired of it and sold it to Liberia.

Grace sounds like a real piece of work. Zimbabwe has an astronomical inflation rate and twenty per cent of its people are HIV positive. The average woman there lives to age 45 and has probably been raped. Grace herself is obsessed with Ferragamo shoes, quite naturally.

In the tradition of Imelda and Evita, though, she is not all bad. Here’s a news brief about how she donated twenty computers to Solusi University and pledged to fund two (that’s 2) scholarships for needy students. Ha! I’ve already “donated” nearly twenty computers to my teenager. Big fucking deal. Notice her greeting a student named “Marvelous Bhebhe.” One day, Marvelous may lead a movement to remove Mrs. Mugabe and her husband from Zimbabwe. If Marvelous wears an 8 narrow, she can keep the Ferragamos.

I am happy to announce PAP Smear’s new adoption program. We will start off with Mark’s generous offer to adopt WIllow and Piper Palin. This is a true blessing for these girls, who will be raised in Connecticut by two loving, educated fathers who will provide them with the New York Times, trips to museums and foreign movies, and an opportunity to attend a nice private college.

Cker will be adopting Trig, and not a moment too soon. She will rid him of the cruel name and begin early intervention so that he learns to walk instead of facing a life of being passed around family members like a gravy boat. I know he will flourish with Cker and her family!

I personally have adopted annemarie, since she was so obviously born to the wrong mother (i.e. not me.) If Track survives the secret CIA plot on his life and agrees to six months in rehab, I think he will make a nice adoptee for someone with patience and a firm hand.

Moving on to other issues, I’m sure you’re all as enraged as I am about Prop. 8 in California, which forbids gay couples the right to marry. I’ve just watched some morons yelling about it on TV. The Christian homophobes who defend this attempt to curtail civil rights have no logical or legitimate argument other than this: Marriage is already a shaky institution.

So what?! Maybe if gay couples start marrying, marriage will be more popular. Maybe there will be less divorce, since many gay couples have had the time to think long and hard about taking those vows seriously.

Gay marriage doesn’t threaten marriage as an institution but rather increases its ongoing relevance as a way to live, and a way to commit to loving relationships. The only reason to take offense is if one feels personally threatened by gayness, in which case that’s a problem for a psychologist to help with.

Let’s let everyone do what they want in their private life. If you absolutely insist on invoking the bible, start with: Love thy neighbor as yourself. Of course, this doesn’t work with my particular neighbors, but you know what it means.

If you wish to apply for an adoption, please submit your application here. Same-sex couples welcome.

Oh dear, I thought I had my rant all in order until I checked out the Huffington Post just now. While Mrs. P prepared scrumptious mooseburgers for the family, Little Piper was walking around in high heels under her bootleg pants. Not mommy’s shoes, since they appeared to fit her nicely. Is this child abuse, or am I thinking about the fake Louis Vuitton handbag?

Either way, something’s not right. Poor little Piper admits that campaigning with her mom was really hard. When asked by Matt Lauer if she’d like mommy to run again in 2012, Piper doesn’t know. When mommy prompts her in a scary fake voice, Piper corrects herself. Sure, she’d love it!

Meanwhile, Trig is passed around like a hot potato, giving everyone in the kitchen a chance to show how nice it is to share the family mascot. Don’t drop him, Piper!

Earlier today, I watched the interview with whatshername, that Fox TV woman with the frozen face. Mrs. Palin scoffs at the bad press she’s received, blamin’ those bloggers who are “probably sittin’ in the basement of their parents’ home, wearin pajamas.”

Haha, Sarah, you nut! You must be thinkin’ of Wayne’s World. Lots of us Mean Bloggers have our own homes, and we’re wearing some ugly Sass and Bide Rats or maybe something from Neiman Marcus that we bought with our own Neiman Marcus card!

And then, she defends herself about the shopping extravaganza, saying the money had to cover clothes for eight people. So let’s see. Five kids, one husband. Oh! She must be including Levi, who wore a suit to the RNC and then went back to shit-kicking in the Ozarks or wherever.

Wasn’t I silly to think we’d get some relief from this motor-mouthed fruitcake?! Tomorrow, it’s Larry King, who will be rendered totally helpless when she winks at him.

Ugh! I hope Oprah hangs tough about banning Mrs. Palin from her show. Let’s all write to Oprah right now, begging her to stay the course.